Chelsea Girls

The first woman sprinted by me on the way to the supermarket, seems the liquor store did not carry their favorite brand of cigarettes, no matter, she was nimble and fleet of foot in no time crossing the 100 meters necessary to reach the entrance to the nicotine temple where this woman would reunite with her favorite flavor of toxic cancer sticks. The second woman talked frantically on her cellphone as if still feeling the effects of cocaine binge earlier in the day. The sound in her voice felt deseperate, as if a cry for help, some sort of relief from the constant overwhelming heartbeat, blood pressure and near faint status, as the first woman ran by the second woman relayed a phone number of some other aquaintence, a solitary entity on the other line systematically controlling the actions of these two ladies. The license plate on the car was from California, Labor Day weekend, here to party, make some cash at the local strip clubs, and or visit family; the possiblities were endless, but all that mattered at the moment amounted to the resupplying of smokes, gas, and a valid credit card. It appears that Chelsea girl two had her belongings stolen last night, maybe by another stripper, cousin, or as the result of over indulgent antics clouding the memory of the previous night, sweeping away in its cold front through the mind, the memory of how she lost all the valuables formerly in her possession.

My damn front tire has gone flat again, so time to pony up some money for a new set of tires, the manager of the tire store shows me how worn out the side of the flat one have become due to many years of service on the streets of Las Vegas, but I am distracted by the Chelsea girls, number two is Hispanic, five-ten, aggressive, rough, like a predator sizing up her surroundings, she needs money while walking the expressway tightrope of being engulfed in a narcotic substance overload seizure, where time comes to a complete halt, breath escapes the lungs and refuses to return, paranioa, fear take hold of the mind, can't black out here in front of a liquor store at 3pm in the afternoon that's what junkies and drunks do in their daily performance of self annhilation, no medical insurance, have to just ride out the ascent till reaching the plateau, making an effort to gather the senses as her words turn to babble, she looks at me for an appeal, guidance, suggestion, possibly some money for booze to calm the high, Chelsea Girl number two looks ready to go into cardiac arrest on this 100 degree plus day. I tell the tire store manager to replace all the wheels, while keeping an eye on the girls, as Chelsea Girl number one returns with the cigarettes slowing her frantic sprint as if being timed for Olympic prequalification in the 100 meter sprint competition, everyone is happy again, shaking asses as if subliminally reassigned by headquarters of internet waves of ether, the celebration can continue, next stop the cabanas at Encore Beach, professional party girls can't be wasting time, soon enough those swimsuit model curves and looks fade, bringing on the dawn of desperate nature where no amount of boob jobs, make up, and hair dye will erase the years of hardcore, sleepless sex, drugs, and rock n roll, just another horse walked out to pasture as the next batch of young twenty something recruits relish in their virgin like experience overwhelmed by the sheer debauchry of the global jet set festival tour, where Vegas is just merely one stop on a multidestination journey from Dubai to Phuket to Goa to Ibiza to Sao Paolo to Tokyo, New York, Paris, Sharm Al Shiekh, and London, 12 months a year, 24 hours a day, waiting for no one, those who fall off to addiction, overdose, and or death, shall be given no sentiment, just walking papers as well as the same kind of treatment the Native American Indians gave their sick, leave them behind to be reclaimed by the gods. The party trail is a tough one to follow, no mercy, full on, fearless with reckless abandon, money fixes any problems while jail time is considered a merit badge of honor, still the best ones never taste the rusted iron bars of lower class prison cells, no all too quickly back on the Lear Jet to another destination refueling their desire to live without boundaries, the only real freedom left on this planet.